by Leslie Karst
Eric came to pick me up, bringing a clean—and dry—set of clothes. Groggy from the drugs and lack of sleep, my head throbbed and my shoulder and hands ached. Nevertheless, I told him to take me straight to Solari’s. “I promised Dad I’d be there at nine, when all the stuff gets delivered.”
“Uh, there’s something I need to tell you,” Eric said as we merged onto Highway 1 north. “I called your father last night as soon as I left the hospital to let him know what had happened. But I made him promise not to come down to the hospital to visit. I know Mario well enough to know he would have been mad as hell not to have found out till this morning.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I wasn’t looking forward to telling him anyway, so thanks.”
Traffic was light on this Saturday morning, but Eric had to slow as we approached the Fishhook, where the freeway makes almost a three-sixty-degree turn, and I held onto the handhold as best I could to keep my sore shoulder from being pressed against his body.
“How’s Buster?” I asked once the road had straightened out and we were headed toward town. Eric had agreed to spend last night at my house to look after the dog.
“He’s fine,” Eric said. “Though he did think it a little odd that it was me in your bed last night instead of you. But once I let him under the covers to snuggle with me, he seemed totally cool with it all. I got up early and took him for a long run, by the way, since I figured he wouldn’t be getting much attention today. He was crashed out on the sofa, snoring, when I left the house.”
“I’ll go home later, after I make sure everything’s been delivered for tonight, and hang out with him for a while. But thanks so much for doing that. I owe you one.” I leaned over and kissed Eric on the cheek, prompting a goofy smile.
We didn’t speak for a few minutes, Eric humming a spirited bass line from some piece I didn’t recognize and me gazing out the window, wondering if my show of affection had given him the wrong idea. I got my answer almost immediately.
“You know,” Eric said, glancing my way, then returning his attention to the VW van we were following down Chestnut Street. “I’ve been thinking about us…”
He trailed off, no doubt hoping for some sort of encouragement from me. But I didn’t respond, keeping my gaze fixed on the brightly colored dancing-bear stickers covering the van’s rear window.
“It’s just that seeing you last night like that,” he went on, “so anxious and scared an’ all after what happened, it made me really think about how much you mean to me. That maybe we should try it again, us—”
“No, please. Don’t,” I said softly, willing the tears in my eyes to stay put. “I just can’t. Not right now.”
Eric nodded. “I get it. Now was a bad time to bring it up. Sorry.” He stared straight ahead, jaw set, hands gripping the wheel.
We drove on in uncomfortable silence, and as we approached the entrance to the wharf I became aware of the weather for the first time today. Puffy white clouds floated in a pale blue sky and people were in shirtsleeves, so it had to be warm out.
“Ohmygod, I am so glad it’s not raining today,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. “At least one thing’s going my way.”
“Yep,” was all Eric had to say.
We bumped down to the end of the wharf and pulled up at Solari’s next to a large truck with “June’s Party Rentals” printed in blue letters on the sides and back. “Hey, and something else to be grateful for,” I said. “The delivery’s on time.”
I opened the door, then turned to face Eric. “Thanks again,” I said, touching him on the arm. “Really. For everything. I’ll see you tonight. Oh, and be sure to take good notes for me today at class, okay?”
I’d originally hoped to fit our plein air painting class between this morning’s setup and tonight’s dinner, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Not that I’d have been able to paint or take notes with these bandages on, in any case.
“Will do,” Eric said, watching as I climbed gingerly out of his Lexus. “You sure you’re okay to work today?”
“No, but I don’t see as I have much of a choice.”
What had been a slight frown on his face now became a scowl.
“Don’t get all bent out of shape,” I said. “I’m mostly just going to be directing people where to put stuff, and I promise I won’t overdo it.” Slamming the door, I waved good-bye as he turned around and made his way back down the wharf.
I knew I’d probably hurt Eric’s feelings. It had to have taken a lot of guts for him to say what he did, and then to be shut down like that when he’d allowed himself to be so vulnerable must have been horrible. But I simply wasn’t ready to make the kind of decision he wanted. And although I’d used the excuse of my attack last night to put him off, that was all it was. An excuse. Because I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to change the way things were now. It seemed like the perfect situation—having him as a best pal without the entanglement and heartache that came with being a “couple.”
But truly, I think my biggest fear was that if we did go back to our old relationship and it were to once again fail, we’d risk losing it all. And I couldn’t even fathom what my life would be without Eric as a friend.
Once his Lexus was out of sight, I headed around the side of the restaurant to the back of the building.
Dad was out by the tent, going over the invoice with one of the delivery guys. When he saw me come around the corner, he raced over and started to give me a bear hug, but then pulled back.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not that beat up. Just go easy on the left shoulder.”
He took me again in his arms, more gently this time. “I’m so sorry, bambina. I was worried about you all last night. Are you sure you’re well enough to be here?”
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you till this morning,” I said, releasing myself from the embrace. “I knew it would keep you up. But really, I’m fine. They wouldn’t have let me out of the hospital if they didn’t think I was okay. Here, let me deal with the delivery.” I reached for the invoice, and for the first time Dad noticed my bandages.
“Oh my lord,” he exclaimed. “What happened to your hands?”
“Just some cuts I got from the barnacles on the piers. They aren’t all that bad, but the doctor was worried about infection ’cause of the bacteria the barnacles can carry. So I have to keep them bandaged for a few days.”
Dad’s face was all scrunched up and I was afraid he was going to cry. “Look,” I said, “why don’t you go inside and get started in the kitchen. Once I confirm that all the stuff’s been delivered and make sure everyone’s clear about how it needs to be set up, I’ll go home and rest for a while, okay?”
“But the man who did it is still out there,” Dad said. “I’m not sure it’s safe for you to be—”
“Babbo,” I said, “no one’s going to attack me in broad daylight with all these people around.” I didn’t mention that some of the people who tended to hang out around here were in fact on the top of my suspect list. But if I did see any of them skulking about, I’d be sure to be on my guard.
This seemed to appease him. With a squeeze to my good shoulder, he headed into the restaurant. The delivery guy had left while Dad and I and were talking but now reappeared with another man, the two of them rolling a cart loaded down with large round tables.
“Those go inside the tent,” I said. Sean and Emilio came out the back door at this moment, no doubt sent by my dad, and I directed them to start setting up the tables, as well as the folding chairs once they were rolled out, too.
I was reviewing the invoice, checking it against my original order, when I heard someone call out my name. I looked up from the list, a bandaged finger marking the spot at which I’d stopped (“140 dessert forks”). “Ah, Detective Vargas. I was hoping to see you this morning.”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” he asked.
“Sure.” I led him inside. Passing my father in the hallway, I raised my eyebrow
s as if to say, “See? No need to worry about me; I have a police escort.” Dad didn’t appear terribly amused, however. The sight of the detective must have made him a little leery.
Once in the cramped office, Vargas nodded for me to sit at the desk and he took the folding chair. “You’re a hard woman to get hold of,” he said. “I must have left a dozen messages on your phone since last night.”
“Yeah, well, my phone isn’t working so hot right now. That little ocean swim I took last night wasn’t all that great for its innards.”
“Ah, right.” The detective smiled. “Good point. Well, anyway, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come down to the hospital to talk to you, but I was tied up with another case. Is now a good time for us to chat?”
“Well, we’re hosting a hundred and forty guests tonight for that sister-cities dinner and there’s still a ton to do. But I can certainly give you a few minutes.”
“Great.” Vargas pulled a notepad from his pocket and clicked open his pen. “I know you already told this all to Detective Collins, but I’d love to hear it again for myself. Why don’t you start by telling me what exactly happened last night.”
“Okay.” I recounted how I’d been standing out behind the restaurant looking at the ocean when someone had come up from behind, hit me on the head with a hard object, and then lifted me up over the railing and shoved me into the water. “Just like what happened to Gino Barbieri,” I said.
“Did you get a look at who it was?”
“No. The person was backlit so I couldn’t see their face. But he was fairly tall, and strong enough to lift me up.”
“So you know it was a man?” Vargas asked, looking up from his pad.
“Not necessarily. It could have been a tall woman, I suppose.”
He jotted down some more notes. “Okay, and is there anyone you have reason to suspect might be the one who attacked you?”
“Well, as I mentioned before, I figure whoever did this to me probably did the same thing to Gino. You know, same MO, as they say in cop shows.”
The detective managed not to roll his eyes, but I could tell he wanted to.
“And I do have a few people in mind who might have had reason to get rid of Gino, but I can’t say any of the motives I’ve come up with are all that strong. But hey, on the bright side, at least this should take my father off the suspect list, right? I mean, he wouldn’t push me off the wharf—not when he needs me to help out at that big dinner tonight.”
My attempt at levity was met with a thin smile. “How ’bout you tell me about these suspects and motives you’ve come up with,” he said.
“All right, I have several. Four, actually, if you include Bobby.” I explained why I’d originally suspected Bobby, and then told him about the bocce player Frank, and about Angelo, and the reasons they might have had for at least fighting with Gino even if they hadn’t intended to kill him. Then I recounted what I knew about Anastasia, and how Gino had come on to her after dinner the night he disappeared.
“And you said she saw someone who’d been watching when this happened?” Vargas asked when he’d finished writing everything down.
“Uh-huh. She said they were hiding behind that kiosk out there, the one with the information about the Italian fishing fleet, but that she just hurried past because seeing him creeped her out.”
“We’ve already spoken with Bobby and Angelo, but I guess I’m going to have to talk to…” He consulted his notes. “… Frank and Anastasia as well.” Tapping his pen on his pad, he stared absently at the cycling poster on the wall above me, then shook his head. “Seems like lots of people had issues with old Gino.”
“I know. But if he really did have copper poisoning,” I said, “it makes sense. He could have gotten so crazy that he just ended up pissing them all off.” And then I chuckled. “Who knows, maybe it’s just like Murder on the Orient Express. Maybe they all did it together.”
My laughter died, however, as I took in the detective’s grave expression. Because, much as I tried to pretend everything was fine, he was right. It was not fine. Whoever had killed Gino—and had tried to do the same to me—was still out there.
* * *
Once I’d confirmed that all the tables, chairs, plates, flatware, tablecloths, napkins, steam tables and trays, serving utensils, and—perhaps most important—the porta-potties, had been delivered, I headed home to rest for a few hours. But not before stopping to buy a replacement for my waterlogged cell phone. No way could I make it through another day without one.
It was now almost noon, and I had to be back at around three to help my dad with the last-minute cooking. Though how much help I’d be with these bandages on was a big question. But at worst I’d be able to direct the new prep cook, Joe, on what to do.
Solari’s was closed to the public today, thank goodness, so the kitchen would be free all day for the big dinner. When I’d gone inside to say good-bye to my dad, the counters had been covered with platters upon which Joe was arranging salami, sliced cheeses, peperoncini, and olives, as well as sheets of fugassa ready to be topped with pesto, and cheese and onions.
Buster greeted me at my front door and was so excited he almost knocked me over. “Settle down,” I said, kneeling to let him give my face a thorough washing. “I don’t need any more bruises right now.” But his agitation was understandable; this was the first time since I’d adopted him the previous spring that he’d ever spent a night without me.
After taking a walk around the neighborhood so Buster could leave his calling card at all his usual spots, the two of us crawled into bed for a snuggle and a nap. I lay on my side in the shape of a C and the dog curled up in a tight ball against my belly. He immediately closed his eyes, and within two minutes I could hear his regular breathing. Staring at the photo of my Aunt Letta I’d hung on the wall next to the bed, I willed myself to follow suit. I’d need some more REM sleep before tonight if I didn’t want to be a complete zombie.
But exhausted as I was, my body refused to relax. I rolled onto my back and the dog in turn stretched out full length, making sure he had as much contact with me as possible. Maybe if I tried a breathing exercise, that would help. In … out … in … out …
But all that did was take me once more back to last night and the panic I’d felt gasping for air in the rough water, trying to escape the violent surge that had kept throwing me against the barnacle-encrusted pilings.
Great. Now I was truly awake.
It wasn’t surprising, though. How could I possibly sleep with so much to worry about? Not only was some crazy man—or woman—lurking out there who clearly wanted to kill me, but I had to orchestrate a five-course dinner tonight for a hundred and forty people, including a bunch of VIPs from Italy and the City of Santa Cruz, with a welt on my head, an aching shoulder, and hands so covered in bandages that I could barely hold on to a spatula.
This last reflection sent my thoughts racing to Gauguin. Oh, God … I’m scheduled to work the hot line there tomorrow night. No way could I do that now. Javier was going to freak out. With this on top of everything else, I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to simply throw in the side towel as soon as he heard. I’d be lucky if I even had a head chef next week.
Rolling once more onto my side, I started to cry. The tears fell slowly at first, but the more I thought about Javier quitting, the faster they came, until I was sobbing uncontrollably. Why couldn’t he be happy at Gauguin? What was so important about being the owner of a restaurant?
My sobs ceased as I had a realization. And what was so important about me being the sole owner of Gauguin? It wasn’t, was the answer. Sitting up, I wiped my eyes. Yes, that was the obvious solution: Why not offer to sell half the restaurant to Javier?
But the question was, would he even want to be co-owner with me?
Chapter 26
Four hours later I was standing at the range top in the Solari’s kitchen tending pots of Nonna’s Sunday gravy (which we were calling “Braised Beef and Pork in Red Sauce”
for tonight) and chicken cacciatore. Though my bandaged hands had proved useless for most chores, I was able to grip a large spoon well enough to keep the food from sticking to the bottom as it came up to a simmer.
Once they were heated through, I directed Sean to transfer the two entrées from their enormous pots into hotel pans and take them out to the steam tables we had set up in the back corner of the tent.
Dad was at the stove whipping up the sauce for the tagliarini with brown butter, sage, and porcini mushrooms while Emilio was sorting through the bags of mussels we’d procured from Stagnaro Bros. for the spaghetti dish. The stuffed cabbage and fried polenta were now in the oven, the spinach salad with orange, fennel, and black olives was all prepped and chilling in the walk-in fridge, and the zucchini spears were sizzling in giant pans on the stove.
Man, does it smell good in here!
Satisfied that all seemed in order and that I was no longer needed in the kitchen, I headed out to the tent to make sure the tables were properly set and the beverage stations stocked and ready and that the wait staff all knew their jobs. We’d hired several extra servers for the night and, since they all had banquet experience, I was relying on them to set the example for our regular gals, who’d never before had to deal with a crowd of this size. After giving the front-of-house staff some last-minute instructions (such as, don’t do any serving or clearing of dishes while any of the VIPs are making speeches), I locked myself in the tiny office to change into my party clothes. I’d decided on black slacks and a burgundy-colored silk blouse that would hide any red sauce I happened to spill down my front during the evening.
The event was scheduled to start at five o’clock. Since I’d been designated the official greeter, I walked back through the dining room a few minutes before the hour and unlocked the front door. But as soon as I stepped outside, my heart sank.
At least twenty people were swarming around the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, and it was obvious that they were not eager, early guests for the sister-cities dinner. Not only was their attire far more casual than the evening wear I expected most attendants to wear, but many of them were bearing familiar placards: “HAPPY INDIGENOUS PEOPLE’S DAY” and “SOLARI’S SUPPORTS IMPERIALISM.”